Expert
by Basser
Summary: TBB's 'consulting an expert' scene from Sherlock's point of view. Character motivation study.


**A/N: **_Someday I will learn how to update just one fic at a time... that day is not today. So here's a short writeup of this scene, because the bit at the end always makes me laugh._

* * *

Of all the interests he's taken up and dropped over the years, painting has never been one of them.

Much less _spray-painting._ The smell of aerosol is at best disgusting and at worst nauseating, so he's always made a point to avoid the stuff. And so, while he can identify virtually any type of tobacco ash with a mere glance, he's at a complete loss to determine the exact type of paint employed by their criminal.

Luckily, he knows a young man who can.

John is smirking. Apparently he's finding it some point of immense amusement that _Sherlock_ of all people would need to ask _advice_. Stupid. Just because he happens to know a lot of facts in a wide range of subjects doesn't mean he knows _everything_. Quite apart from being impossible such an undertaking would be a massive waste of cranial processing power. Remembering reams of knowledge in boring subjects is the job of computers and specialists, not genius detectives. Sherlock memorises things he finds interesting or useful; nothing more.

It doesn't take long to find Rhys. The boy's always loved the subtle irony of defacing museums with his own unique brand of intricate yet vaguely disturbing artwork, so tracking him down is a simple matter of checking round the back of the nearest public gallery. Rhys is one of the more reliable members of Sherlock's unofficial 'crew' of street types. The homeless, vandals, drug addicts - he's on decent terms with swaths of the criminally-inclined across London. Some might scoff at his putting his trust in a load of street urchins, but Sherlock knows all too well what sort of diamonds can be hidden amongst the rough of London's back alleys.

Rhys is a good example of that. A tagger with a near-encyclopaedic knowledge of aerosol brands, excellent predictive ability and a healthy dose of artistic talent besides. Sherlock's known the boy for a fair few years now, having met him back when Rhys was nothing but a headstrong young teenager trying (rather unsuccessfully) to worm his way into the good graces of a shady Stockwell distribution ring.

Sherlock glances at the boy's current project - a policeman with a pig nose. Alright, then. Dismisses it before Rhys can get into one of his long explanations about whatever deranged symbology he's woven into his little act of rebellion this time. John seems a bit put off by the whole situation, and Sherlock vaguely wonders if John has ever so much as spoken to a petty criminal in his entire life. _(Well, in his entire life before meeting Sherlock, that is, since technically...)_ Sherlock ignores him, pulls up the photos of the unknown tags on his phone and hands the device over.

John's staring at the transaction with a look of bland incredulity, probably expecting Rhys to make off with the mobile or something equally ridiculous. Of course he won't - the boy is trustworthy. And even if he weren't, few street types would dare nick anything belonging to Sherlock Holmes. Vagrants he's never so much as _met_ know him by sight at this point, having heard stories of the 'psychic junkie' passed up and down the alleys. Absurd as the moniker is he nonetheless allows the rumours to circulate - much better to be implicitly feared than rely on the nebulous respect of criminals and teenagers.

Rhys takes the phone (tossing one of his paint cans toward John, who instinctively catches it with a befuddled expression) and goes about examining the photographs.

Michelin brand, zinc-based propellant. Excellent start, but he needs more information. Rhys is being irritatingly unhelpful, whinging about not having much to go on despite Sherlock less-than-politely reminding the boy there's _actual human lives_ at stake. Ugh, this is the one thing he really dislikes about the vagabonds; they're all just so _unreasonably_ selfish. Granted he quite understands the motivations behind such an attitude, but that doesn't make it any less aggravating. And of course Rhys is complaining again - _are you going to help us or not?_ Little sod.

Somebody _must_ know something, and nowadays Sherlock has far better things to do than skulk about skate parks hunting down illicit graffiti. Rhys, he knows, does not. The boy eventually agrees to ask around, and Sherlock starts to go about prying some sort of coherent plan of action out of the young man. Before they can continue the conversation further, however, the predicted arrival of two community support officers interrupts them.

Sherlock snatches his phone back from Rhys, tucks it in his pocket and instinctively bolts down the street.

Only once he's a good few hundred yards away does he realise the irony in what he's just done. Not two hours ago he'd been in the very heart of Scotland Yard, literally _scolding_ an officer of the law. And yet he's just sprinted away from a couple of cops on the off-chance he'd be detained and searched.

Which actually, come to think of it, he probably doesn't even have cause to worry about anymore. What's he got with him, anyway...? He pats down his pockets - nicotine patches, penknife, magnifying glass... no, he's not even brought along his lockpicks. Nothing in the least bit illegal... meaning he's just scarpered like a spooked junkie when he hadn't even been carrying!

How embarrassing.

He scrunches up his face in annoyance with himself. Old habits, he concludes. Making him flee without pausing to think. Strange that he's retained such an illogical instinct after so long.

Rhys escaped through the opposite street and John's nowhere to be found, so Sherlock takes a moment to straighten his jacket before casually meandering back out into the main road. He idly considers the benefits of deleting this 'run away from oncoming policemen no matter the circumstances' impulse he's apparently been keeping stored away, but eventually decides to just leave it be for now. After all with his lifestyle there's no telling what he could have in his pockets at any one time, and he has little desire to go through all the bother of having Mycroft bail him out of prison _(again)_.

Decision made, and John still missing _(where did the doctor run off to, anyway...? down the alley with Rhys...? but no, Sherlock hadn't seen him - the man must have found a different path somewhere)_ he tucks his hands in his trouser pockets and walks off to find a cab. He's got data to go on now, even if it isn't much. The paint brand, very specific type of aerosol by the sound of things. He'll head back to the flat and do some research.

Doubtless John will show up eventually.


End file.
